


Polterheist

by kitkattaylor



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Body Swap, Cheating, Enemies to Lovers, Ghosts, M/M, Students, University
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-04-18 14:15:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14214954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitkattaylor/pseuds/kitkattaylor
Summary: Two gay ghosts possess Dan and Phil and ruin their lives





	1. In which Phil deals with matching socks

**Author's Note:**

> Don't mind me while I procrastinate and avoid sleeping  
> I'm trying not to be nitpicky about this one  
> It might become mature who knows maybe i'll torture you all first

“Did you just punch me or kiss me?!”

“I think you told me to...”

Dan cups his nose. It throbs in pain. Wriggling it just to know he still could, Dan takes in his surroundings. Had he fainted? Where the fuck was he? He was in someone’s dorm, with the corkboard and cubicle bathroom and the desk...surprisingly neat. Pokémon sharpener. Buffy poster. Laptop smothered in stickers. Presumably it was the room of the boy sat across from him on the single, squeaky bed. The blue and green check duvet cover (opposite to his back home, speaking of...)

“Who are you and where am I?”

The boy – blue eyes, emo fringe – looks extremely worried and shakes his head. Dan almost wants to apologise seeing how scared he looks, but then his nose _aches louder_ , if an ache could scream. The boy notices and his eyes pool with guilt. He begins to reach for Dan – not even sure himself where he was planning to touch him – but Dan slaps him back. He pales, if that was even possible, he was _so_ white already.

Dan scrambles to his feet. These aren’t his clothes. Does he have a bag, if so, where is it? Is his phone- yep, in his pocket. Or not his pocket. Whoever’s pocket this is. The pale, blue-eyed boy gawks at him, still knelt on the bed. He’s tall; these are probably his clothes. Did that mean they...

Dan’s lips tingle helpfully. It sure _feels_ like he’s been kissed. He’s warm, and his stomach is in knots, and he feels decidedly ruffled- well, maybe that can be accounted for by the fact he’s found himself _punched_ after a possible hook-up with an absolute _stranger_.

“Where am I?” He repeats. The boy clumsily stands, scratching the back of his head.

“England...”

“-Obviously.”

Blue-eyes winces. He’s all crinkled and shaky.

“Did we fuck?”

Sure, it’s blunt. But considering the situation they’re in... Dan feels slightly nauseous, his every sense heightened. Is he even a little dizzy, is that his world...tilting...?

Blue eyes blushes (ridiculous) and stutters. “I don’t kn- remember... Hey, you’re bleeding.” He scurries, knocking through the tiny door into the tiny bathroom, heffalumping his way unrolling copious amounts of toilet paper. The metal hook screeches and the man emerges with a hand like an Egyptian mummy, and he expects Dan not to duck when he approaches.

“Who are you?”

“Phil-“

“-Where am I?”

Phil had flailed at Dan’s attempts to block him and had thrown the toilet paper. Dan wasn’t about to catch it, so it slithered sadly to the floor between them. Dan sniffs and wipes the blood on his hand.

“My bedroom...”

Dan groans. Phil hops after him as he swings the door open, dribbling feeble protests of _I’m sorry, let me clean you up, where are you going to go?_ Of course, Dan doesn’t know. But he walks like he does, though he slows his large, determined strides when four pairs of eyes blink at him from the kitchen. His head feels fluffy now and the floor seems to sink beneath him. Refusing to faint under this particularly awkward and judgemental spotlight (one pair of eyes seems especially damning), Dan strides on towards the door – hopefully the exit – ignoring the deafening silence and the time it takes him to work the handle and the ( _ow,_ his _nose_ ) way Phil had stayed pinned beside his door, hidden from sight at the end of the hallway.

It’s cold outside (isn’t it supposed to be summer?) as he jogs weakly down metal steps leading...somewhere... Of course, his phone is dead. The light is dimming. He searches for clocks; there are no clocks. He searches for sign posts and there are none. (Except useless letters like ‘ _A_ ’ and ‘ _B_ ’ and ‘ _Ab1_ ’.) Surrendering, he collapses back against a brick wall, arms flopped over his knees. Two girls pass and whisper animatedly. I mean, he looks like a drug addict. Maybe they’re not even wrong; maybe this is what it’s like to snort cocaine, or something... Oh, what the heck.

“Where are we?”

“Er...Manchester uni?”

Manchester. Fucking Manchester. Halfway up the fucking fuck country.

~

Dan is now _in_ the stranger’s bed. Waking up (for the second time today) Dan blinks hazily across to Phil who’s sat backwards on a chair, chin on his arms, staring intensely as Dan rouses. Dan shivers involuntarily. Realising Dan is now conscious, Phil leaps – a little belatedly – upright, the office chair spinning beneath him.

“Hi, so, I couldn’t let you leave with your nose all like that, and you’d fainted which is bad so I carried you upstairs, like, fireman style, and made you tea-“ He picks up the tea. “Tea, see? I can make you another, it’s gone cold now, and...yeah... I found this!” He holds up a mangled piece of string. “I don’t know why it’s here, so that’s mysterious. I’m sorry about earlier, and the...nose... I really don’t remember what happened, either. But my fringe has disappeared and my socks match and _someone’s_ tidied my room... Also, I forgot to ask you your name?”

Dan’s breathless himself. Licking his dry lips, he tries to pick somewhere to start. What the fuck is that red string? Why does he seem most offended by the tidying? Phil carried him _fireman style?_

“...Dan- You carried me _fireman style_?”

The boy is staring again. “What? Yeah.” As if he didn’t have totally questionable skinny arms. “So, Dan. What’s your age?”

“What is this, ASL?”

(Location: _Manchester._ )

Phil’s eager eyes flick somewhere sideways and _is he blushing_? He fiddles oddly with his fingers, restless in the chair. He steals a sip of Dan’s tea (and scrunches his nose at it.) Dan doesn’t comment, just takes the awkward silence merrily stretching between them to adjust himself where he sits. He’s practically buried under blankets and if the tissue paper in his lap was copious, the pillows behind him are plain excessive. He must have stolen the bedding from every room. Dan couldn’t imagine the crowd in the kitchen being happy with that.

Slyly fixing his hair – which was _curly_ , could today get worse – Dan watches as a toy lion rolls off his shoulder. It stares up at him, just as intense as its owner...who’s returned to creepily observing him.

“How do you feel?” Phil blurts.

His eyes are alarmingly piercing. The answer is Dan feels weird and exposed and off-guard and – not to forget – _punched_ , so you can't blame him for snatching the toy lion and throwing it at Phil. It bounces off his strangely shaped skull into the corner.

“What was that for?!”

Dan shrugs.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you _assaulted_ me.”

“I told you, I don’t remember that...”

“And that makes you less responsible how...?”

Dan’s got his arms crossed and a nice pretty scowl on his face. Phil pouts helplessly, and somewhere starts the staring again.

“Stop that!”

“What? Wha- Look, I’m trying to be nice now...”

“Then fetch me Malteasers.”

Phil hesitates, blinking all Bambi-eyed, like he doesn’t know whether to scarper right now to the kitchen. The good Dan recognises that Phil is apologetic and friendly, probably too much so, but the bad Dan can’t help but hold a grudge against him. Dan feels lost and embarrassed and afraid and being a bitch is coping; wanting to trample all over Phil’s zany brightness and his soft, concerned expressions is _defence_. (Oh, and his _incessant_ fidgeting-)

“You asked how I felt and I feel like Malteasers.”

“O-Okay...does your nose still hurt?”

“Yes.”

Phil gulps. So Dan adds: “And my head.”

Untangling the string from his hand (he was close to cutting off circulation), Phil slowly slinks to the door. Pausing, he leans back against it. Dan notes the heavy thump of his head.

“ _They’re still in the kitchen._ ” He whispers. Like they could hear him all the way from here.

“So?”

Phil dawdles. Gently, he scoops the lion onto his desk. And pats its mane.

“ _They’re being silent_. Even Aamir.” Dan frowns stonily; disinterested. But Phil elaborates anyway. “My boyfriend.”

Admittedly, the information does spark a note of interest inside him. It also, shamefully, makes him wonder if the explanation were a form of clarification, even, perhaps, a reminder to himself that he shouldn’t be staring and blushing and maybe even _kissing_ Dan. (It somewhat surprises Dan that Phil has a boyfriend, when he’s been looking at him like he’s never had a man in his bed.) Really, it’s sweet how distressed he looks.

Dan doesn’t say anything. Phil nods, for no reason, like this interaction has been at all satisfying, and ventures into the hallway. Dan sinks low on the bed and grabs the string. He refuses to drink the tea.


	2. Where no one asked for leftover haribo

Not that Dan has any sense of time (for all of this), but it feels like forever since Phil went to retrieve Dan chocolate. Dan wonders whether Phil could be nice enough to jog to the nearest shop to actually _buy_ Malteasers- either way, Dan is bored, and hungry now. He sits up. A little too fast. His brain throbs in protest, heavy as though it were filled with sand. Grumbling to himself, Dan slides awkwardly from the blanket mountain, stumbling to stand (sort of) upright. He experiments for a moment, moving his head left and right, down and up. _So_. _Movement is bad_ , he concludes. Lion stares at him, and Dan is childish enough to throw up his arms and hiss ‘ _what?!’_

 _‘Yeah. Thought so,’_ he smirks, as if the lion could have put his tiny paws up to fight. _Food_ , he thinks, and _food_ again, determined, when he remembers the crowd in the kitchen.

It’s laughable how awkward it is. Phil is slowly searching the cupboards, slow enough that he barely makes a sound closing each door. Which is unnecessary, as every pair of eyes is still firmly attached to his back. The only sound is the inappropriate crinkling as one boy eats a packet of crisps. Like in a cinema, this otherwise small sound is monstrously amplified. The slow circling of his fingers in the plastic before they hook to a hula-hoop...the obnoxious crunch and subsequent mouth sounds... It’s as grating as nails down a chalkboard, maybe even more so, as Dan has never been forced to witness that.

The eyes switch instantly to Dan. He thinks being held at gunpoint would feel as bad. Maybe that’s dramatic. With their every judgement sweeping over his body, Dan steps as confidentially as he can into the kitchen. Phil glances at him nervously, as if Dan were about to shout at him for his Malteaster-empty hands. He mouths something to him, but Dan’s never been good at reading lips, let alone under pressure like this. He raises his eyebrows and steps closer. Phil dips his head and whispers, voice deeper than before, “ _We have raisons and two yellow Haribo bears.”_

_“That’s literally not even chocolate.”_

Phil looks between Dan’s eyes and shrugs. Dan jumps when he realises how close they’ve got, arms almost brushing. Shuffling away, offended because... _because_ \- Dan crosses his arms and freezes at the eyes still watching them. He’s about to snap, but Phil notices and speaks first.

“Do we...have any chocolate?”

Blank faces blink at him. Crisp-boy grounds another hoop between his teeth. Phil clears his throat.

“That’s...not what I meant. I mean, can we talk?”

“Now?!” One boy scoffs, left corner of the kitchen table. He has a beard to rival Gandalf. If Gandalf wore Hawaiian shirts. He shifts up. “ _Now_ you want to talk?”

Phil glances to Dan twice, but Dan is definitely not about to open his mouth now. Phil bites his lip and nods. Hawaiian Gandalf shakes his head.

“Look, we’re going out.” Chairs scrape against the tiling as the group follows. Apart from crisp-boy; he stays sat. Hawaiian Gandalf takes the hand of the girl beside him, bright red hair tumbling mermaid-waves onto her shoulders. She wears an Adventure Time shirt, which Dan secretly envies. She’s the only girl present; the fifth flatmate is a slender boy with glasses, tanned skin and a large-ish nose. He wears a grey cardigan over a white button-up and very skinny black jeans. He has a chunky, expensive-looking watch on his wrist that he checks. Dan presumes this is Aamir. He’s perfect math-geek twink.

“I-I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.”

This makes them halt. Hawaiian Gandalf turns on his heel with a face that despite its open kindness seethes with mean laughter.

“Are you serious?”

Girlfriend slinks her hand from his and opens her phone, eyebrows raised.

“Phil- you’ve been ignoring us for months.” ( _Months?_ ) “You woke up one day and disappeared without word and then _Dan_ arrived-“ He throws his arm up to Dan, who tries desperately not to cower. “-and you started sucking face in front of all of us! You refused to talk, you’ve been skiving every class- I thought I knew you, man. The Phil _I_ know loved Aamir.”

Said Aamir stands, leant into his left hip, arms crossed. It makes Dan uncross his own arms.

“That Phil wasn’t a cheater. That Phil wouldn’t have let Aamir go without saying a word.”

 _Ah._ So Dan was a homewrecker. The image of them ‘ _sucking face_ ’ right here, in front of this audience, flashes in his mind. It angers Dan that he feels guilty for actions he can’t remember making. He also desperately tries not to look at Phil’s lips.

He looks. The silence gapes and Phil mimics a bloody goldfish. It makes Dan’s heart hurt a little, because if Phil is truly as lost as Dan is, then he must feel a whole lot worse than Dan right now. These are his friends and (ex) _boyfriend,_ after all.

“ _Ditt jävla ålahuvud_ ,” mutters crisp-boy.

“And you changed!” Gandalf continues. “You stopped dressing like yourself. You _didn’t_ want to watch Buffy, you _talk_ to each other weird! You called an umbrella a _rain napper-_ “

“-You called me _madam_ -“

“-And Lottie told me you’d apologised for being ‘ _caught in a spot of blanket hornpipe_ ’ when you were late to answer the door. I don’t even want to _know_ what that means...”

Angry Hawaiian Gandalf takes a deep breath. Clearly, he’d needed that. (Dan blushes.) 

Speaking a little softer now, exasperated, he finishes: “You call him your _turtledove,_ which is just-“ Waving his hand in front of his face, as if to say _I cannot deal with this,_ he shakes his head once more. “Again; we’re going out. So, see you later I guess.”

“Wait-“ Phil tries. Dan hangs his head, finally unable to withstand the tension (Aamir is seriously scary for how small he is.) The pain returns in full force and Dan can’t help the yelp that leaves his mouth. Phil glances over. Dan presses the heel of his hand to his forehead and grimaces. Maybe a little sympathy gets to seep into Dan’s eyes. Phil snaps his away. 

“I really don’t know what happened today-“

“And we really don’t care about what happened today. If you’re a guy that gives his boyfriends bloody noses now, well- get help. And in the meantime, don’t bother calling us your friends.”

Hawaiian Gandalf exits first. Aamir hovers, clearly off-put by the sudden desperation in Phil’s stare. His chest raises in one big breath and he steels his expression. He casts a final disgusted glare towards Dan and leaves. As his figure swans out the door, Phil releases a shaky breath. Girlfriend’s eyebrows draw down.

“I gave you so many chances, Phil.” She says it quietly. The sadness in her voice makes it especially painful. The door shuts heavily and, if possible, Dan feels even more awkward with them gone. He swallows the inappropriate ' _fuck_ ' lodged in his throat. Cautiously, he looks over to Phil. Phil is in shock. He’s not quick to hide his tears. Turning and scraping his hands into his hair, he lets out a gruff sigh. Admittedly, Dan is a little scared. He’d punch himself too.

“What did you say, Oscar?”

The question is tentative, awaiting the inevitable.

Oscar scrunches the crisp packet in one fist. “ _Eel head_ ,” he spits. But he doesn’t leave; he sits back and watches. Phil almost knocks Dan into the fridge when he passes.

~

“I’m leaving.” Dan announces, twisting his fingers together. Phil is on his bed, head hung between his knees.

“...Again,” Dan adds.

“It’s night.”

Dan purses his lips, unsure what Phil means.

“In Manchester.”

Right. Fair point. But Dan doesn’t think a city at night can be more uncomfortable than this. Now...what did he come with? He can’t have hopped on a train naked, so where are his own clothes? Where’s his wallet? Keys?

He doesn’t want to disturb Phil more but- “Do you know where my things are?”

“No.”

“So...like, there’s blood on this shirt.”

He holds the offending item away from his chest. Phil still doesn’t look up. Dan lets the fabric spring back. Reluctantly, he moves to search Phil’s cupboard. He’s making a mess of the clothes hangers, clattering and jolting the pile of jeans to the floor. Phil’s presence behind him is nauseating. Dan just wants to _get out_ ; he’s all clumsy, jittery hands and sausage-fingers-

“Fuck’s sake.”

Something about Phil swearing is extra cutting. Dan stands back as Phil thunders across to the cupboard. His heart fills his throat, his chest, the room, beating hard and fast.

“Here.” He shoves a random shirt at Dan. It’s hideous – too bright and patterned – but Dan is not about to complain. He clutches it awkwardly, also not about to strip right in front of Phil. Motioning his eyes to the side, Phil gets the message and sits back down, angling away. Dan trusts it, and self-consciously lifts the old shirt from his body, immediately bringing his arms down to hug himself. The new shirt is loose on him. He buttons it to the top and tugs on the supposedly short sleeves (they come down to Dan’s elbows.) Coughing, he lets Phil know he’s done. Phil raises his head and looks Dan up and down. Dan can practically _hear_ him thinking ‘ _I ditched Aamir for this?’_ That must be it. His eyes linger on the over-sized shirt, and then on Dan’s face (lips.)

“You’re not going to tell me to stay again?”

“I already warned you.”

“No cold tea and cuddly toys for me now?”

He only means to tease, but Phil’s eyes darken.

“I don’t like you, Dan.”

Dan snorts. His smiles quickly drops.

“Okay,” he laughs, frowning. Phil’s silence is stony. Dan holds up his hands. “Right, okay...”

The apology is there, right there on his tongue. But then Phil stands to open the door, ushering Dan out. Phil is certainly no longer intimidated by him. Phil really does hate him now. Hatred looks awful on him.

Dan walks slowly. He pauses centimetres from Phil. Phil breathes in through his nose. His heart continues to physically beat against his chest, saying  _go go go_. Most of him screams for him to go. But then there's this other part... It’s hot, between them.

“Gonna hit me again?”

He doesn’t know why he says it, why he smirks and thrills as Phil’s eyes darken further at the challenge. 

Maybe it isn’t so hard, after all, to imagine Dan as Dan: The Homewrecker.

Dan is three doors down the hallway when he stops.

He hadn’t really expected Phil to open the door.

Phil glowers at him. But his body slumps; defeated. 

“Can I charge my phone first?”


	3. Sorry I'll talk about my drug problems quieter

Dan is slumped on the floor against the radiator (because that’s where the plug socket is.) His phone must have completely drained because it’s being stubborn now, staring up at him from his lap with determined blackness. If it were a child, it would have its arms crossed and tongue stuck out. He jiggles his legs impatiently. Phil is pacing (two steps in either direction, the room is small) as he talks on the phone to his mum. When he’d seen the thousands of messages he’d failed to answer (thousands is an exaggeration, he’s not that popular) he freaked out about not having called his mum. Really, really, freaked out. Like he clutched the phone in horror, eyes woeful and guilt-ridden, and made a wounded noise of ‘nooooo.’ Dan wills his phone to life, a sickening dread filling his belly at the thought of what might lie in his own inbox.

Phil hasn’t spoken to Dan since...Dan asked to stay. Phil had only nodded and left the door open for Dan to come in. Then he’d scurried to the bathroom and returned in new clothes: skinny black jeans, a large hoodie, glasses. Presumably, this was more ‘Phil.’ He purposefully mismatched his socks. He found Dan in the kitchen, dragging sodden clothes from the washing machine. He was rubbing his eyes, face scrunched in irritation. He didn’t ask, or remotely question Dan when he muttered ‘ _this is just Gandalf’s wardrobe_.’ Dan hung Hawaiian Gandalf’s clothes on the first rack he found. (What? Was he going to put the clothes back in the machine?) Phil looked a little surprised, but, again, said nothing, and plonked a pile of clothes beside Dan. Dan’s clothes. _Shrunken._ Dan _whined._ Oscar peeped out his room, saw the dolly-sized clothes, and laughed. That was it; He left again, pale lanky arms pulling the door shut as he wheeled away on his office chair, cackling.

So Dan stayed in Phil’s sweatpants, and Phil’s ugly fucking shirt. He couldn’t find his keys. He couldn’t find his wallet. Not even a bag. He began to talk to himself.

“...So, to clarify. I’m missing about...three months of my life. Cool. Not alarming at all. I came here with nothing. Just my phone and one outfit _that_ I’ve now also _shrunken_ because, apparently, I forgot how to use basic kitchen appliances. You abandoned all your friends and totally disgraced the money your parents must have forked out for uni, not only completely sabotaging your future but also destroying your relationship, because you’re a terrible person.” (Here, Phil shot a warning, loathing, look towards him.) “...You also forgot how to put in your contacts, apparently, because you keep wincing behind your glasses. You read too much Jane Eyre, or something. And, oh, there was that _mysterious_ red string you found. Oh, oh! _And,_ let’s of course not forget, you punched me. Or maybe we’ve got this all wrong. Maybe _I_ head-butted _you_. Maybe it was both, some weird kind of suicide pact. Knocked each other out. Too ashamed of our treacherous, unfaithful,  _salacious_ ways...”

“Mum! I know, I’m sorry, y-yeah...just busy. Lots of work...”

“ _Very_ busy boy.”

Phil’s eyes fly wide. He holds the phone tighter to his ear. Dan hadn’t intended to keep talking, he can feel himself being annoying, but the temptation thrills through his body and then he’s ready to be the devil himself from the hot pits of the radiator.

“Oh! Yeah? How many babies? O-Oh no, poor Horrice...”

“-Not _Horrice-_ “

“Jane shouldn’t say that- N-no, that’s just the telly...” Phil goes to open the door and talk outside, but as he does Oscar appears and flicks his finger at him. Phil collapses back against the door, desperately pressing a finger to his lips, helpless, as Dan smiles smugly. “No I haven’t been watching the X Factor this year...”

“X Factor? Wouldn’t have pinned you as a reality TV kind of guy. _Could_ have guessed this whole...mummy’s boy thing, though.”

Phil’s nodding along, making little ‘mm hm’s’ here and there. He’s got both hands cupping his ears, which doesn’t really aid in stopping his mum hearing Dan...at all. Suddenly, panic strikes his face.

“Aamir? Yeah, we’re good- Actually, no. We’re not. He’s...a little mad at me right now.” Dan pouts, resting his chin on his finger and nodding sympathetically. Phil looks ready to tear off the door handle and murder him viciously. “Well, what do you think if, like...I did something wrong, but I don’t remember doing it. Does that- Okay.”

Dan opens his mouth and Phil tenses, but then Dan’s phone springs to life. Phil accidentally sighs in relief. Dan stares at it eagerly, hurriedly skipping through his password when the lock screen lights up. He taps on text messages immediately. There are a few from his friends, which in preview mostly look like varieties on the question ‘ _where are you lol.’_ This relaxes Dan a little. But then he sees his mother’s name; well, it’s just ‘ _Mum_.’

There’s only two. Both sent in June.

_R U wiv friends? Honestly Dan, this is all rather childish. I’ve informed Kieren that you’ve quit, which quite frankly is embarrassing 4 U. Waste of time. Dad + I agree that if U want to run away from UR problems, then we will let U get it out of UR system. Don’t drink Urself stupid. U R an adult now, act like one. Just bcoz U had one bad performance doesn’t mean UR life is over. Call Grandma._

_U left UR keys and wallet._

Dan has to very carefully unfurl his fists. Phil’s presence burns in his peripheral vision. He blinks quickly. He’s hurt. He’s angry- fuck, he’s _so_ angry. What kind of parents would leave their child alone, without money, without clothes, for _three months_? _I could be dead!_ Dan thinks. But they don’t care, do they? Apparently not. Phil’s softly murmuring and giggling to his own mum. Shakily, feeling as though he is sweating with the effort to keep appearances calm and controlled, Dan moves to his history. His grandma had called a lot; he’d answered once.

His mind turns back to the last part of the text message. ‘ _Just bcoz U had one bad performance doesn’t mean UR life is over.’_ Had he fucked up so bad? The midterm show for teachers and students? Dan is on a gap year, and after rolling around his bed playing video games a lot, his parents had encouraged him to get a job. Well, less encouraged, more poked and demanded. He’d got a job teaching piano to children. The midterm show had secretly meant a lot to him; he’d never had the courage to perform before. But he’d prepared dutifully, he’d practiced for _hours_. He knew the song inside-out, and he really felt he could do it. I mean, it was an audience of _kids_ and their parents. And his parents too, which terrified him immensely but- he was ready, he was. So _how_ and _how badly_ had he failed? Dan wants to scratch the imaginary images from the inside of his brain. He wants to curl up, hide hide hide forever. Maybe never go home. Why should he?

“So my parents just basically gave me their blessings to go on a bender. Nice to have their loving support.”

Phil turns on his shoulder, blocking Dan out. Dan continues, louder.

“Do you think it was drugs? I mean, what else could it be? Have you taken drugs before? It would have to be something pretty hard-core, like er... Oh, does mum not want to hear about drugs? Sorry, I’ll talk about my drug problem quieter.”

“Oh my god, there’s photos. Fucking hell. Oh, yes, of course. I’ll censor myself... _Motherfucking cunt_! There’s loads! This is like, what do you call it, archaeology. I mean...they’re pretty shit. Some leg. Floor. Leg. Accidental screenshot. Oh! Get excited! We’ve found a duck! Thought myself some fucking photographer...there’s like, trees, artsy shots of streets, skyscrapers. Still pretty shit.”

Apparently, Phil doesn’t appreciate Dan’s commentary. He stalks over, arm outstretched to tackle the phone from Dan’s hand. Dan has good reflexes.

“Ooh! There’s you, Philly! Don’t know where the fuck you are. Oh, oh- now there’s lots of you. Close ups. Saucy. Good thing you’re fully clothed, hey? Wai-wait...what the fuck is this? Oh my god! OH MY GOD!”

Dan jumps onto Phil’s bed, holding the phone high out of reach. Dan is breathless, laughing. “Wha- It’s me! Philly, Philly Lester... Now do you remember this?” He shows Phil the screen. It’s a photo of a drawing...a drawing of Dan. On Phil’s bed. Naked. Ball-sack, butt-crack naked. Well, no butt-cracks, thankfully. It’s much more graceful, Titanic-esque. Dan’s soft, rounded form is happily stretched on the bed, one knee slightly bent, one arm tossed, carefree, behind his head. He’s smiling, eyes closed. It’s tender, wispy, quick pencil lines, though Dan tramples all over its tenderness, bouncing on the squeaky bed frame, clutching at his belly-laughter.  

“Wow, Phil, such an artist!”

Phil’s face is frozen in shock. Confusion. Shame. Everything. He blushes right to the tips of his ears.

“Wanna describe it out loud?”

“Ah- Sorry! No, it’s just my flatmates, being noisy...”

“-Is this the, er, spot of blanket hornpipe, you mentioned?”

“-Uh, yeah, yeah maybe be best to call back. You too. Mm loveyoutoo. Bye.”

Phil flips around the second the call ends. He breathes out like a bull. Dan stops bouncing. He holds the phone between both hands, innocent as a child.

“So..." Dan begins.

" _Have_ you taken drugs before?”

~

Dan is back against the radiator, phone plugged in again. He can’t quite close the photo app, specifically _one_ photo... He pretends he’s only hot because of the central heating. Phil is stumbling around his now extremely messy bedroom.

“How can you have not found this whole A4 pornographic drawing but you _did_ find a mangy piece of string?”

Phil ignores him. He searches folders, books, pockets, under his mattress, which Dan promptly laughs at.

“It’s not actually a bad drawing.”

“Stop it.”

“Oh! He talks!”

Silence again.

“I look good.”

“Shut up.”

Dan sniggers. “Defensive, much.” Phil throws a random pencil backwards without looking. Dan full blown laughs. It’s something about the way Phil is moving. And then he withdraws a crumpled piece of paper from the draw in his desk, and of course it is _the_ drawing, stored in the most obvious place in the fucking room. Dan snorts despite himself.

Phil can’t get a word in edge-ways as Dan laughs.

“How can you have not looked in there?!”

“I thought I already did...”

Phil sinks down to sit on the floor, staring forlornly at the drawing. Calmed down, Dan crawls over. Phil eyes him warily but lets him sit beside him. They look down at the drawing together. Dan begins to feel a little awkward. He snatches the paper violently.

Phil frowns at him.

“It’s my body.”

“It’s my drawing.”

“What? You want it? Keep it under your pillow now?”

Phil blushes a shade that could scold. “No... Shut up.”

He shakes his hair and fixes it with his fingers. Dan’s seen Phil do that a lot. It’s funny because Dan does it too. Only there’s no point when his hair is frizzy like this. He needs a shower, but for some reason requesting one is scary. What if Oscar bolted in and just stood there, judging? That feels like something he would do. What if Aamir came home and tore the shower curtain from its rail, kicking Dan out onto the street stark naked? What is Phil slipped in with a notepad and pen and honed his skills further? What if he got a _boner_ -

Phil is watching him curiously, as if he could see through into Dan’s mind. Dan can’t meet his eyes. He presses the paper against his chest and taps it. He must look flustered all of a sudden. Flustered and frightened. He still feels so, so out of his depth.

Is Phil staring at his dimple? Dan relaxes his face.

“I can’t draw,” Phil announces.

“Well, you can, Phil.”

“No,” Phil determines, eyes fierce on Dan. “I can’t.” Slowly, he peels the paper from Dan. Dan is pinned by Phil’s stare.

Breaking eye contact, he gestures to the drawing.

“I can’t draw. This guy can.”

It’s ludicrous. What is this, a movie? But there in the corner is the scribbled name, the date. Loopy handwriting. _William White._

Dan turns his face to Phil’s.

“And you’re _sure_ it isn’t drugs?”


	4. When you need to inhale a baguette

The remnants of his dream hadn’t exactly been pleasant (something something back at school playing piano at the annual cabaret when the philtrum of his nose starts dissolving like Daniella Westbrook and his limbs become heavy and his eyesight hazy and the crowd begins to whisper and he’s hitting all the wrong notes and watching as his parents get up and walk out, chattering busily to one another, ignoring Dan, and Dan turns to see a movie playing on a screen behind him and its Titanic but he’s Rose and Phil is Jack and everyone is _laughing_ and then the school hall is the ship itself and Dan’s grandma is getting into a boat, her back turned, Dan forgotten, and Dan plays the keys harder but the piano slips on the deck and then Hawaiian Gandalf is holding a lantern to his face and shoving him off the edge, and all Phil’s friends watch as he hits the sea, and then-) Well, but then he’s in the shower and that classic silhouette appears on the curtain, and low and behold, Aamir appears wielding the knife. He adjusts the glasses on the bridge of his nose before stabbing Dan in the gut. Dan looks down to find his body made of Malteaser, and his shirt is the shirt he bled on when he first woke up in Phil’s room, which, _shit_ , was only yesterday...

More blood pours from the stain. It soaks through his malted milk palms.

“Bread...” Aamir seems to say. “Bring me...bread...Any bread...”

There’s classical music playing. Dan’s feet squeak on the shower floor, though he sounds remarkably like a chair leg. The shower water pelts the wall with metallic clatter.

“Will Vector Analysis and an Introduction to Tensor Analysis do?”

“I promise I won’t be more than five minutes late...”

The water sounds more and more like a spoon. A sudden noise erupts and there’s a flash of Aamir instead holding a chainsaw and Dan bursts into consciousness, eyes flying wide to see Aamir leant casually against the kitchen counter, finger pressed to the blender, own eyes staring sharply at Dan.

“No, I can hear you still. Okay, cool. Yeah, yeah...I’ll tell all later. Mm. Mmm.” Dan lurches to pull the blanket higher over his body. Aamir’s stare is unwavering. He laughs quietly, darkly. Then he pulls his finger from the blender which comes to an abrupt halt. The relative silence settles on Dan icily. He’s already cold with sweat. “Yeah...can’t talk about it here. Mm. Okay, see you. Remember the bread.”

The second his eyes leave Dan to end the call, Dan gropes for his own phone. He has to clumsily stretch over the edge of the sofa to the floor where he’d left it. He’s biting back a groan as his muscles protest and his fingers scrabble, when suddenly the phone is knocked further out of reach. Aamir steps over his arm, his toes kicking the phone under the table. Dan’s body sighs with defeat, his hand flopping down.

“Oh, sorry,” Aamir chimes, retrieving a bag from the table (which he could have reached from the other side). Dan’s tempted to shrink back into his blanket cocoon, but Aamir is there drinking some vile green smoothie, all smartly dressed, scraping the chair back (so it squeaks) and neatly tying his shoe laces. Dan feels inadequate, yes, gross, _yes_ , but if he remembers correctly, this is also the _scorned lover_ he stole a boyfriend from. Apparently. Dan quickly runs a hand through his hair and sits up, drawing the blanket with him around his hips, as if whatever time it was in the morning was natural to him: as if he wasn’t still shaking the idea of porous malted milk skin.

The radio seems too loud for breakfast. (Purposefully, Dan thinks.) It’s Classical FM. He knows the song.

“Tchaikovsky.”

Aamir’s head darts up with a frown. He almost looks offended.

“June,” Dan continues timidly. Phil’s spare t-shirt clings to his chest even though it’s two sizes too big. He can see Aamir recognising it. And hating it (on Dan).

“I tried to learn it, once...I mean, I _am_ learning it, I’m just...not very good...”

( _June_ , Dan thinks in the awkward silence, _the last month I remember._ )

Aamir has a straw in his smoothie and he sucks from it noisily. There’s something obscene about the way he does it. Dan wishes he would look away. But he sucks long and deep (and Dan curses those adjectives that come to his mind...) until he’s sucking at the bottom of the glass. Then he stands and washes it out at the sink, clicks the radio off, and goes to dab concealer under his eyes in the hallway mirror.

Dan has a dangerous and terrible urge to laugh. But he gets up, pockets his phone (8.07 AM, yuck), and stumbles to fill a glass of water. It’s then he remembers the voices that disturbed him at some point in the middle of night. Not that he’d really been sleeping anyway. Phil’s friends (“friends”) had returned, ability to whisper impaired by the alcohol they’d consumed (and smelled of). They giggled and hushed each other upon noticing Dan, before one delightful commenter announced ‘ _fuck it, why should we care.’ (_ Gandalf.)  _‘He’s never been considerate of us. We had to sleep through them fucking at all hours.’ ‘Airhead. Just stares at his phone all day.’ (_ Aamir.)  _‘Honestly, Aamir, I don’t know what Phil sees in him. I think he’s bewitched.’ ‘He’s not even that pretty.’_ There had been a small silence, which made Dan feel a twinge of satisfaction. _Bitch about me more_ , he’d willed, then regretted it. _‘Slut.’_ More silence. Shuffling of shoes and coats, sounds of cupboards and glasses. ‘ _I’m still worried. I just don’t understand.’ (_ The girlfriend.) Dan’s heart warmed to her. _‘Phil was like Phil again last night.’ ‘Like Phil again? You heard and saw as well I did his bloody nose. That’s not like Phil.’ ‘Its Dan’s fault,’_ Aamir had sneered. _‘He’s ruined Phil.’_

Dan doesn’t notice himself chugging the water. Wiping away droplets with the back of his hand, he hitches himself up to sit on the counter. Aamir’s jaw clenches in the mirror.

“You don’t look too bad.” Dan coos, as if reassuring. Aamir clicks the lid of his concealer irritably. “And bread will soak up the hangover fine. Like, inhale a baguette. Oh, do you know that Instagram star? Who shoves her face in bread? People love it. I don’t know if it’s a kink or what, but like literally, she’ll take a fucking sourdough, bagel, whatever, and do this-“

Dan mimes thrusting his face into a loaf of bread and moans loudly. It’s at this exact moment he hears footsteps entering the room. He can’t work out who would be more mortifying: Phil or Oscar.

Just his luck- It’s both!

Dan closes his hands in his lap and clears his throat. Phil stares at him aghast, and then glowers. Dan feels particularly like an annoying fly, with Phil looking at him like that. A fly that won’t leave, even when you open the window.

“I didn’t know you were awake.” _Translate:_ I wasn’t here to supervise you.

“I came to see the show,” Oscar shrugs, grinning. His blonde hair is pulled back in a pony-tail, and it appears he’s already been jogging, going by his Lycra.

“Shower’s free, Dan.” _Translate:_ show’s over. Dan’s about to say he doesn’t _want_ a shower, because he’s fucking difficult, but Phil’s eyes harden on him, urging his message. Dan still doesn’t budge. Oscar busies around them, pouring a bowl of cereal. Their staring contest must go on for a while because Oscar’s got his first spoonful of cereal ready, stood between them like an observer at bloody Wimbledon, and Aamir has one hand on the door. Dan had forgotten his presence, to be honest.

“Wait, Aamir-“

Phil breaks out of their weirdness to cast pleading eyes to Aamir. Aamir hesitates. Dan wouldn’t have, Dan thinks. Dan has more dignity than that (yeah, right.)

“Can we please talk?”

Hesitate, hesitate. Where’s the Aamir that called Dan a slut last night? Does Phil know that Aamir uses such words?

“Okay.”

He closes the door softly.

“But quick. I’ve got practice and I’m already late.”

Phil bounces once on his toes, which for some reason Dan notices. Aamir waits by the door, as if still in two minds about staying. The air buzzes with anticipation. Dan almost forgets he’s not watching from behind a screen. Phil angles his face towards Dan and signals for him to leave. He has to signal twice because it’s Dan. Well, at least this version of Dan. He hops obnoxiously down from the counter and brushes his hands together. He doesn’t have the balls to speak though. Oscar hums a long, amused note and wanders easily to the front door, nudging past Aamir. God knows where he’s going, with a full cereal bowl and spoon.

Dan pauses and glances back to Phil, whose holding a seat out for Aamir at the table. For an awful moment he panics about _the drawing_ in Phil’s bedroom. Dan doesn’t know where Phil left it. What if Aamir found it? But, no- they’d already done far more than draw nude portraits of one another. They’d been doing far more than that for a good three months, it seems. Aamir sits down carefully, legs bent in that way Julie Andrews teaches Mia in The Princess Diaries. There’s a voice in his brain that mocks Aamir for it, for the _gayness_ , just because he wants to be mean, but then he’s the heart-breaker here – and he’s the one quoting The Princess fucking Diaries.

He means to take a shower, he does. But he doesn’t know where a towel is, and when he opens the bathroom door – not sure how exactly he intends to ask, or where he’ll begin the search – and hears Phil talking in such a sad and solemn voice... Well, he can’t help himself. He perches slyly in the corridor, back pressed to the wallpaper, listening.

“Phil, I gave you a minute- two, actually. I’m late.”

“I don’t know how to explain...”

“-So you’re telling me you’re sorry, but you can’t explain why you did it, or why you’re now changing your mind.”

“I’m sorry-“ (It’s feeble.) “I _wish_ I could explain. But I can’t...right now, anyway.”

“Okay, I’m leaving...”

(Chair squeak. Chair squeak stops.)

“Nothing’s changed for me.”

Aamir scoffs. “Oh, really? Well that’s nice. Let go of my hand Phil-“

“I never loved him.”

(Dan shakes his head at himself, for how the words somehow sting.)

“You’re saying all this, but he’s still here!”

“He’ll be leaving.”

“He will be...? When?”

“Tomorrow.”

(Chair squeak.)

“I just need him for today! Then he’s gone.”

“What the fuck, Phil?” (Silence. It’s painful. Dan can picture the distress in Phil’s eyes.) “What was this to you? A joke? How can I know what you mean by love when I’ve heard you say it to him, and now you’re saying this?”

(Dan’s stomach drops. _Love. He said he loved me?_ )

“I-I didn’t me-“

“-See I was mad, right? Heartbroken. And then I looked again and I was concerned. Confused. And then I was fucking _mad_ again because whatever the fuck was wrong with you, whatever secret you were hiding, you were still there, rubbing it in my face, like I’d never meant a thing. I think you’re sick.”

“I’m sorry-“

"-Maybe I used to want a reason but I’m not sure there is any. I think all there is is a cheat and a slut.”

(Dan’s stomach twists. His throat is narrow and dry. The word drops like a heavy, heavy stone into still water.)

“A slut.” (He emphasizes with words of salt, rubbing at the wound.) “A dumb twink.”

“-Stop.” (Phil says it kind of breathless, and Dan kind of stops breathing.) “He’s not-“

“You’re really defending him?”

(Silence.)

“Phil, what did I not give you?”

(Silence. A voice in Dan’s brain champions Phil to speak. Another voice cheers for Phil to see Aamir’s true colours. (As if his own colours aren’t uglier.))

“Okay. ...Okay.”

(Someone sniffs, and Dan thinks it’s Aamir. He can hear him standing. Slowly, he eases himself back inside the bathroom, door ajar. Their voices are softer, but Dan’s not sure if that’s the door or them.)

“Guess what? I’m going to be on University Challenge.”

“That’s amazing, Aamir. You deserve it. I’m- You deserve it.”

“Thanks.”

(Dan sinks down to sit on the floor. The brief moment of tenderness, of shared sadness, freezes over. Dan can understand. And though Aamir’s voice is quieter than ever, with its pure venom it cuts right through the walls.)

“I would have dumped you eventually anyway.”

Dan hugs his legs to his chest, rests his chin on his knee.

“You think you’re funny, but you’re not. And you’re weird but not in a charming way. And look at you, crying. You’ve always been pathetic. I can do better.”

~

Dan lets Phil walk behind him past the door. Maybe he wanted Phil to notice him there, with the door ajar, and do something. But Phil simply walks two steps past and closes his bedroom door. Dan hugs himself a little tighter, a little smaller, takes a deep breath and gets in the shower.

He has a long shower, despite it being wasteful. He lets the hot water drum down on his forehead and begs his thoughts to quiet. To silence, even. All the shame and guilt and fear and shame and guilt and shame and guilt- All the voices that say one thing, and all the voices that say another. Perhaps he truly was schizophrenic. With all this _who is William White_ nonsense... Nothing made sense, especially about Dan. So often, Dan didn’t understand himself.

He wouldn’t have been as cutting as Aamir. Or had he already been?

Dan scrubs shampoo roughly through his hair. Once he's done, he wipes a pruney palm over the condensation on the mirror and smiles at himself through the smear. He would take that smile to Phil, he thinks, until he catches sight of the towel rack behind him and remembers.

( _Fuck_.)

Sidling up to the door, Dan quietly unlocks it and turns the handle. Pressing himself, naked and slippery, against the wood, he peeks his head out.

“...Phiiil?”

He’ll have to be louder.

“PHIIIL?”

The neighbour door opens with a bang. Dan angles his hips further away and smiles sweetly. Phil comes right up close, eyes steely.

“Um.” His nakedness is overwhelming at this proximity. “I forgot a towel.”

Phil doesn’t move for a moment, and Dan scares himself with various scenarios that involve his naked form exposed, somehow, in whatever act of revenge... But Phil just blinks – _so_ close – and slinks away. He returns with a towel and hands it through the gap. Dan snakes his arm out to retrieve it and smiles and nods. With the door closed and lock secured, Dan opens the towel up and to his horror finds it an adequate size for a child. He opens his mouth to call Phil’s name again, but no sound comes out. (What is it with this flat and his fabric requirements shrinking?)

So, with a towel that must be designed for hair, or shoulders, or something, Dan just about covers his vital parts and waddles delicately to the door. He just about drops the towel upon seeing Phil still standing there.

Phil doesn’t even smile upon seeing him. He looks him up and down once and seems to purse his lips. (Well, that’s a winner for the body confidence.)

“I want to leave in half an hour.” (He addresses Dan’s...somewhere region. He’s certainly not looking at Dan’s face.)

Dan nods. “Yes, sir,” he smiles broadly, but of course _Philip_ doesn’t laugh. Stupidly, he lifts one had to salute and makes out like the towel could have slipped, going ‘Oo!’ and clasping it back in place. Phil practically narrows his eyes at him. He starts to turn his back and here Dan nearly does drop his towel in reaching to tap him.

Phil tenses under the slightest of taps. Dan withdraws his hand, rearranges his cover, and finds his breathing gone funny. Phil blinks back at him, waiting; impatient. A drop of water plops onto his nose. He can feel the water drying on his chest and just quite how exposed his body really is.

“I was listening.”

He’d never been good with lying. Lying had a way of eating away at him.

“Here. At the door.”

Phil doesn’t react. Dan’s beginning to miss the zany Phil who’d trip over his own feet and ramble and- and make Dan tea.

“So. I’m sorry.”

Phil nods, flicks his eyes to the floor and goes to leave again. Dan jumps to tap him -  _again_.

“Aha, sorry, I just- I am sorry we’re- _I_ , got you tangled up in this. I know you’re like, totally bummed right now... I mean, that’s an understatement... That you’re _confused_ and defeated. _Well.._. I, um, don’t have a solution. At all. Like, it just sucks. But I do want you to know I am sorry. And thank you for defending me. And I know he’s hurting but...that last bit he said was, you know, still unfair. I’m sure he didn’t mean it. The things he said aren’t even true, so...”

“The funny and weird in-a-charming-way things. I don’t know about the cry baby part.”

“But I mean I know you carried me up here all fireman style, remember?” Phil’s look is considering, his head tilted and eyes a somewhat softer. Dan thinks he’s getting through. Dan grins a toothy smile and points a hand to Phil’s arm. “Even with those skinny noodles you call arms.”

“Alright.”

Phil turns and _was there a smile in his tone? Did he turn to hide it?_

“I’m just saying! That makes you even braver! You had obstacles!”

“ _Dan_ , can we just get today over with, please?”

...Maybe not then. There doesn’t seem to be a smile in a single bone of his body. Dan hovers (half) naked in the bathroom door. He feels like a naughty kid. He feels like a nuisance. He feels like a complication, like a wedge, like the vacuous sex doll he’s been painted as. He feels misunderstood, ignored. Definitely, definitely hated. Dripping, he suddenly feels a lot again, like a wave creeping up behind him.

It’s better to be a bitch. Too hard to hurt. Deflecting shit like he has fucking lightsabres.

It’s better to be loud. Speak over spaces that could otherwise linger, words he doesn’t want to hear. _Thoughts_ he doesn’t want to hear.

Last night, they’d checked the location tags on the mysterious photos. Phil said _what’s one more day_ and agreed to skip classes to find out the truth. Dressed and ready in record time (possibly to avoid the still slumbering Gandalf and Girlfriend), Dan and Phil leave the flat and begin the walk to the train station. Dan walks and types, but Phil doesn’t help to guide him (only stops him walking out into the road, the two times he tries.) Phil keeps his hands in his pockets, his eyes averted, and his mouth shut. Dan hasn’t brought the topic of money up yet. He’ll save that zinger for the station. He’s been describing his schizophrenic theory, talking shit about old documentaries he’s seen. Phil will crack, soon enough. And they'll crack this mystery too.

It’s rudimentary, sure, but it's a start; his Google search of:

_William White_


End file.
